The Invasion of the Tearling

No, Kelsea decided, it’s not my business. She wished she could simply tell the Holy Father to go fuck himself—it would feel wonderful—but where would she house all of those remaining refugees, if not in the Arvath? Bedding, sanitation, medical care … without the Church, it would be a disaster. Briefly, Kelsea considered threatening to seize the Arvath itself under eminent domain, just as she had threatened that group of idiot nobles a few weeks ago. But no, that would be a disastrous move. A direct attack on the Arvath would only confirm every dire warning the Holy Father’s people recounted in the pulpit, and too many people believed the Church’s nonsense. The Holy Father had been trying to make her angry, Kelsea realized now, and he had succeeded. Anger made Kelsea strong, but it weakened her as well; she saw no route to wend her way back into negotiation now, not without losing ground.

“I think His Holiness and I have provided enough entertainment for one evening,” she announced, standing up. “Shall we move on to the real performance?”

The Holy Father smiled, though the smile did not meet his eyes. He hadn’t touched his cheesecake either, and Kelsea cast her mind back, trying to remember if he’d eaten anything at all. Was he worried about poison? Surely this man would not scruple at making one of his acolytes taste the food.

You’re wandering. Focus on the Arvath. The Mort.

Kelsea tried, but she didn’t see what could be done to repair the situation now. And wasn’t this all academic anyway? The Mort would be here long before the new tax year, and New London would never stand up to a prolonged siege. Debating next year’s taxes was like painting a house that lay right in the path of a hurricane. Perhaps she should just relent, but at the mere thought of it, Kelsea’s mind conjured the Arvath steeple: pure gold, worth many thousands of pounds. She could not give in.

As the group moved toward the throne, Father Tyler reappeared beside Kelsea, speaking in a low voice. “Lady, I beg you not to antagonize him further.”

“He can take care of himself.” But Kelsea paused, seeing anew the priest’s pale face, the weight that had dropped from his already thin frame. “What is it you’re frightened of, Father?”

Father Tyler shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing, Majesty. My concern is for you.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I do plan to be on my best behavior for the rest of the night.”

“And yet that plan so often fails.”

Kelsea laughed, clapping him on the back. Tyler’s grimace became more pronounced, and she bit her lip; she had forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to touch a member of God’s Church. “Sorry, Father.”

He shrugged, then grinned mischievously, a rare occurrence for Father Tyler. “It’s fine, Lady. Unlike His Holiness, I’m not concerned about your wanton sexuality.”

Kelsea chuckled, and gestured for him to come with her to the top of the dais, where two armchairs had been set up. The Holy Father was already seated, and he gave Kelsea one of those disturbingly bland smiles as she sat down. His acolytes remained standing at the foot of the dais; Mace gestured for Elston to stay with them. So Mace, too, was worried about the tall acolyte with the weasel’s face. Memory tugged at Kelsea for a moment before letting go.

Mace snapped his fingers at the magician, Bradshaw, who came forward and made a shallow bow. He didn’t wear the brightly colored clothing Kelsea had seen on so many street performers; rather, he was dressed very simply, in black. A table had been set up nearby to hold his props: an assortment of objects, including two small cabinets placed perhaps two feet apart. Bradshaw opened the cabinets, lifted each to show that there was no false bottom, then took a cup from the dinner table and placed it in one cabinet, shutting the door tightly. When he opened the door of the other cabinet, the cup was there.

Kelsea clapped, pleased, though she had no idea how the trick was done. Not magic, surely, but it had the appearance of magic, and that was good enough. Bradshaw made a quick succession of objects appear in each cabinet: one of Dyer’s gloves, a bowl from the table, two daggers, and finally, Mace’s mace. This last caught Mace out with a bewildered expression that turned momentarily to anger, then back to bewilderment as Bradshaw took the mace from the cabinet and presented it to him with a smile.

Kelsea clapped loudly; few people could put one over on Mace, and even fewer would have dared to try. Mace inspected his favorite weapon for a moment, as a jeweler would inspect diamonds, and finally appeared to conclude that it was indeed the same mace. In a low voice, Kelsea told Elston to give the magician a fifty percent tip.

The Holy Father was clearly unimpressed; he had watched the entire performance with an increasingly sour expression and had not clapped once.

“Not a fan of illusions, Your Holiness?”

“Not really, Majesty. All magicians are con artists, deceiving the common people into belief in pagan magic.”

Kelsea nearly rolled her eyes, but stopped herself. Her window of opportunity was closing here; once the Holy Father walked out the door, he was never coming back. And perhaps he would be more amenable to reason now, when there were fewer people to overhear. Bradshaw was waving his hands in a performative fashion below; Kelsea waited until he produced a mouse from nowhere before asking quietly, “What would tempt you to accept my offer?”

“Perhaps we could reach a compromise, Majesty. Forgive the taxes on both our New London holdings and half of our acreage in the Almont, and the Church will happily feed and house four floors’ worth of the displaced.”